


Greetings from the Shrublands

by SvengoolieCat



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Better Bond Book Challenge, Bond POV, M/M, Snark, Thunderball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25701271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SvengoolieCat/pseuds/SvengoolieCat
Summary: In which M packs Bond off to a clinic in the country called The Shrublands for its famed "nature cure." It goes about as well as you'd imagine.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 5
Kudos: 77





	1. Take it Easy Mr. Bond

**Author's Note:**

> I started this ages ago as part of the Better Bond Book Challenge from the MI6-Cafe Tumblr, but never got around to finishing or posting. Also, I didn't do the entire book (which was one of the points of the challenge, haha I apparently don't listen very well). Instead, I just focused on adapting the very beginning of Thunderball, which is seriously the funniest and most melodramatic cold-open of the entire original book series. 
> 
> Unbetaed, as always, so any mistakes are part of my natural charm.

It was one of those days when it seemed to James Bond that all life, as someone put it, was nothing but a heap of six to four against.

To begin with he was ashamed of himself—a rare state of mind. He had a hangover, a bad one, with an aching head and stiff joints. When he coughed—smoking too much goes with drinking too much and doubles the hangover—a cloud of small luminous black spots swam across his vision like amoebae in pond water. Smoking, drinking, gambling, and at some point, apparently, a fight, all left their mark.

Bond dabbed with the bloodstained styptic pencil at the cut on his chin and despised the face that stared sullenly back at him from the mirror above the sink. Stupid, ignorant bastard! It all came from nothing to do. More than a month of paperwork—ticking off his number on stupid dockets, scribbling meeting minutes that got spikier as the weeks passed, and snapping back down the telephone when some harmless section officer tried to argue with him. And then his secretary had gone down with the flu and he had been given a silly temp from the secretary pool who called him ‘sir’ and didn’t seem to like him much. And now it was Monday morning again.

The mobile phone on his bedside table rang. It was the loud ringtone of the direct summons of Headquarters.

James Bond, his heart thumping faster than it should have done, despite the race across London and a fretful wait for the lift to the eighth floor, pulled out the chair and sat down and looked across into the calm, grey, damnably clear eyes he knew so well. What could he read in them?

“Good morning, James. Sorry to pull you along a bit early in the morning. Got a very full day ahead. Wanted to fit you in before the rush.”

Bond’s excitement waned minutely. It was never a good sign when M addressed him by his name instead of his number. This didn’t look like a job—more like something personal. Bond muttered something noncommittal and waited for the shoe to drop with a growing sense of premonitory dread.

“Haven’t seen much of you lately, James. How have you been? Your health, I mean.” M picked up a piece of paper, a form of some kind, and made a show of reading it.

Suspiciously, and suspecting a trap along the lines of a detective asking a perp a question the detective already knows the answer to, Bond said, “I’m all right, sir.”

M said mildly, “That’s not what the Medical Officer thinks, James. Just had your last Medical report.”

The trap sprang shut and Bond knew he was caught inside. Well, shit.

M gave Bond a careful, appraising glance, and then turned his attention back to the paper in his hands, reading it out. “This officer remains basically sound. Unfortunately, it is unlikely that the officer will remain in such a happy state. Despite previous warnings, he admits to smoking at least a pack of high nicotine cigarettes a day—how on earth are you still breathing, James?—and daily consumes approximately half a bottle of spirits, etc., etc. In short, you’re on the verge of becoming a physical wreck with high blood pressure, cholesterol, migraines, and fibrositis, not to mention the damage from addiction. The M.O. paints a grim picture of the near future.”

“Hardly, sir. Everyone has the occasional ache and pain and headache. A bit of aspirin and it’ll clear up in no time.”

“And that is where you are making a big mistake. Medicine only suppresses symptoms; it doesn’t fix the actual problem. They merely contribute to more poison and toxins in the body. Same with diets full of processed sugars, saturated fats, high sodium, and not enough vitamins and minerals. Do you know what else is in the over-processed white bread we eat besides bleached flour? Chalk, benzoyl peroxide powder, chlorine gas, sal ammoniac, and alum. There’s also a whole host of unpronounceable things in the ingredients list. What do you think of that? Not very appetizing, is it?”

“I don’t eat much white bread, sir.”

“Maybe not.” M was on a roll now. “But how much whole wheat do you eat? Yogurt? Vegetables, fruits, nuts?”

Bond smiled. “Practically none at all, sir.” That was a lie, of course. If Bond had a reasonably harmless vice, it was good food and a varied diet. He might drink like a fish and slap on two or three nicotine patches at a time whenever he took the notion to quit smoking, but he wasn’t a complete lost cause.

However, the regularity of his vegetable consumption wasn’t a hill he was prepared to die on.

M was unimpressed. He tapped his forefinger against the health report on the desk. “This is no laughing matter. Your deep-seated toxemia revealed by your Medical, is the result of a basically unnatural way of life. Fortunately, there are a number of nature cures within our reach.”

James Bond looked curiously at M. What the hell had got into the man? Was all this the first sign of senility? But M had never looked fitter. His eyes were clear as crystal, and the skin of his hard, lined face was luminous with health. What was all this lunacy?

M said, “Well that’s all, James. Ms. Moneypenny has made the reservation. Two weeks should set you back to rights again. You will feel like a brand-new man when you come out.”

Bond was aghast. He said in a strangled voice, “Out of _where_ , sir?”

“Place called ‘Shrublands.’ An exclusive health clinic, with state-of-the-art facilities. They’ll take good care of you. I’ll tell 009 to manage the Section while you’re gone.”

“But sir, I’m perfectly all right. Is this really necessary?”

M smiled frostily. “It is essential if you want to continue in the Double-oh Section. That’s all, 007.”

With that dismissal in his ears, Bond numbly rose and let himself out. He closed the door with exaggerated softness behind him and wondered where it all went so wrong. Ms. Moneypenny grinned at him like the she-devil she was.

He walked over to his desk and banged his fist down on her desk so hard the stapler jumped. “What the hell, Eve?” he said furiously. “Is the man off his rocker? I’m damned if I’m going. He’s nuts.”

Ms. Moneypenny smiled happily. “I booked you the best room in the place. Overlooks the herb garden.” She handed him a glossy brochure.

“I don’t give a damn about the herb garden,” he said. “Eve, be a love and tell me what’s going on?”

Ms. Moneypenny grinned and took pity on him. She patted his hand. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Bond. This is just a passing phase, and you happened to be the one caught up in it. You know how he is about the efficiency of the Service. Do you remember that time he made all of us go through the physical exercise course? Q-Branch revolted. Or the psychoanalyst? Oh, right, you missed that one because you were abroad. We had to tell him all our dreams. He didn’t last long, we scared him off. Well, Q scared him off. Not sure how. Last we heard the psychoanalyst retired from practice and makes ceramic pots for a living,” she added parenthetically. “But lately M’s on a health kick. He went there himself and came back all sorts of feisty. We’ve been getting shipments of wheat germ and heaven knows what else, and he’s been rhapsodizing on the effects of the nature cure all week.”

“But why me?”

Ms. Moneypenny smiled. “You know he thinks the world of you—or maybe you don’t. Anyway, soon as he saw your Medical, he had me book you in. Can’t say I disagree. Between the smoking and drinking, I don’t know how you’re still standing.”

Bond controlled himself. He summoned a desperate effort at nonchalance and straightened his cufflinks with the air of a highly offended cat who is determined to look above it all. “It’s just that I’d rather die of drink than of thirst. As for the cigarettes, it’s because I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

Ms. Moneypenny’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s what she said,” she snickered.

Bond made a noise between a grunt and a snarl and stormed out of the room.


	2. The Shrublands

James Bond was in hell. On his arrival to the Shrublands, he’d been evaluated like a prize racehorse and set on a strict regimen of “diet” and “treatments.” Bond was quite sure that the diet and treatment violated some of the Geneva Conventions, and they did not seem to appreciate his comparison of the place to Stalag 13.

On his first day, he saved a nurse, Ms. Fearling, from being run over by a thoroughly disreputable wretch he later learned was Count Lippe. Bond took an immediate disliking to the man. Lippe was an insipid, handsome, irritating young whelp with the general air of some rich old broad’s sugar baby. Bond had a moment of intuition and a glimpse of an interesting hidden tattoo, so he called HQ to identify it and see if Count Lippe was legitimate.

On the second day, Bond sent a postcard to a fictional name and post address to be routed to Q-Branch. On the front was an idyllic picture of the countryside and the words: _Greetings from the Shrublands_. On the back, he scrawled “Wish you were here, darling,” but he carefully made a series of dots and dashes all around the edge of the card:

... --- ... / ... . -. -.. / . -..- - .-. .- -.-. - .. --- -. / - . .- -- / .- -. -.. / .-. . .- .-.. / ..-. --- --- -..

It was a long shot, but he had to try it. He tried to follow up on the phone call he’d made the day before and had been told to mind his own business and focus on gaining personal enlightenment. He was quite sure Tanner was snickering when he hung up on Bond.

After three days, Bond’s world became exceedingly small and primal. He felt terrible. He had a permanent, nagging headache, his eyes were jaundiced, and his tongue was furred. His masseuse took great, meticulous pains to beat and work every kink out of every muscle. They steamed him up in the sauna until he felt like a half-broiled lobster. Add butter and he was done.

Bond felt like one of the living dead. They told him he was fine. This was just the result of the toxins leaving his body, and Bond, languishing in perpetual lassitude and hunger, hadn’t the energy to argue. He drifted through the parlor where the sorry excuse for lunch was being served and joined the queue of his fellow sufferers.

He gave his name to the old lady at the counter. She consulted a list, and ladled hot veggie soup into a small plastic mug. Although, “hot” was relative, “veggie” was if he was lucky to get any, and he was sure that “soup” was supposed to have spice or flavor. Or salt.

Bond took the mug, peered into its shallow depths, and said: “Is that all?” He counted something green that might once have been celery, three pieces of carrot and—oh happy day! —a single desolate cube of potato. He cherished it and struggled not to smile too broadly, lest he give away his good fortune to the hollow-eyed zombies around him.

The woman didn’t smile back. She was immune to his charms and dedicated to the cause of misery for the good of his soul. “You’re lucky. You wouldn’t be getting so much on the Starvation detox. You may have soup every day at lunch and two cups of tea at four.”

Bond took his soup to a small tale by the bay windows and savored the thin broth slowly, to make it last. He watched some of his fellow inmates meandering aimlessly, weakly, through the room, hopeless Oliver Twists who have long given up asking for more. He felt sympathy for these wretches. Now he was a member of their club. Nothing seemed to matter anymore, except for the single, small orange and hot water for breakfast, the single mug of hot soup for lunch, and the cups of tea which Bond filled with heaps of brown sugar, the only “acceptable” sugar in the whole damn place.

Bond drank his soup down to the last, tiny cube of overcooked potato which he saved for last, and then walked abstractedly off to his own room. He thought about Count Lippe, who had been confirmed by Headquarters as a criminal. However, the Count was of no immediate interest to MI6 and they told him to leave it alone. Not that Bond had the energy to do anything about him beyond stew in tired suspicion and half-heartedly stalk him a bit, anyway. Bond also thought of sleeping, of his empty stomach, and about sleeping to avoid the pangs of his empty stomach.

On the fourth day, Bond was thinking on all possible sins in past lives, because he was facing an instrument called The Rack. As far as kinks go, Bond was not at all into being tied down to a strange machine by strange women, and against his better judgement he allowed the nurse to strap him in. In the beginning, it was great. He even napped a bit when the nurse stepped out for a bit.

And then Lippe stole into the room, cranked the machine up to eleven, and left him to get ripped apart by the thing.

Bond didn’t really get ripped apart, although it felt like it and it didn’t do his bad knee or bad shoulder any favors. But Nurse Fearling was so sorry that she gave him brandy and the best massage with mink gloves he’d ever had. The brandy wasn’t his drink of choice, but he finished the glass and said, “That was marvelous. Will you marry me?”

She laughed. “My girlfriend would be greatly annoyed and very confused if I did,” she said.

Well, that was that, then.

Two days later, Bond was going native. He was mostly recovered from his ordeal and fully locked into the routine of the nature cure. He began to look forward to teatime and would walk to nearby teashops in the village for the priceless strength-giving cups of tea laced with brown sugar.

Ordinarily, Bond loathed and despised tea, that flat, soft, time-wasting opium of the masses. Tea always smelled better than it tasted, and it was always too grassy, leaf-and-twiggy for him. His dislike of tea was a point of contention between him and his favorite Quartermaster. But now, on his empty stomach the sugary brew acted almost as an intoxicant. He reckoned three cups had the effect of just about a half bottle of champagne in the real world.

He got to know them all, these dainty, cute, opium dens: Rose Cottage, which he avoided after the woman charged him extra for emptying the sugar bowl; The Thatched Barn, which amused him because it was a real den of iniquity where the owner set out plates of hot scones on each table because she pitied the poor wretches who straggled in from the Shrublands; and the Transport Café, where the Indian chai tea was strong and black as Bond’s withered soul.

It was all a world whose ghastly daintiness and propriety would normally have sickened him. Now empty, weak, drained of all the things that belonged to his basically fast, dirty life of self-loathing and dissolution, he had somehow regained some of the purity and innocence of childhood. In this frame of mind, the teashops, with all their lack of excitement and surprise, were acceptable.

And the kicker? He started to feel and look wonderful. It was disturbing. Who was he becoming? Was he losing his toughness and edge and turning into a dreamer, a kindly idealist who would leave the Service to become a prison visitor, interest himself in youth clubs, march with social justice warriors, eat fake meat, and try to change the world for the better?

Might he think about settling down and keeping a garden and two cats and a mortgage? Perhaps he could write some spy novels and learn to bake? The thought was surprisingly okay.

“Darling,” Bond crooned into the landline phone receiver, “You’ve got to get me out of here before I lose my mind.” Since everything electronic of his had been seized upon arrival, the only phones available were in the common room, and there was a strict time limit of 10 minutes. Privacy was almost impossible. Bond could practically feel the ears straining in his direction.

There was a stunned beat on the other end, probably as the unexpected endearment was being processed.

“The only things I have to do is pet my cats, pay taxes, and die probably of heart failure from stress at the ripe old age of forty,” said Q, finally. “Everything else is negotiable.”

“I’m starving here. It’s Stalag 13 with mandatory sunrise yoga. _Sunrise yoga_ , Q, and not the fun kind.”

“I know. I got all your postcards. Poor thing, you.” There was a distinct lack of sympathy in Q’s soft tones.

“You’re a black-hearted boffin.” 

“That’s why you like me so much,” Q said cheerily. “Have to go and sort out some mayhem, _darling_. Do try to stay out of trouble.”

“I will have my revenge,” Bond said.

“Promises, promises,” came the dry response and the sound of a dial tone.

James Bond would have been more worried if he still didn’t have three main obsessions to keep him going: a passionate longing for Spaghetti Bolognese, containing plenty of chopped garlic and accompanied by a whole bottle of cheap Chianti; an overwhelming desire to escape the Shrublands in such a way that he could keep his job; and a deadly concentration on ways and means to wring the guts out of Count Lippe. With the same cold intensity Bond would have employed against an enemy agent, Bond set about spying on the man. He learned Lippe’s routines, chatted about him with the staff, broke into his room. Over cups of treacly tea that he could almost chew for all the sugar, a plan slowly took shape.

This was a war, a battle for honor. Bond hadn’t told HQ about what Lippe had done to him. Bond would look like an idiot. Weakened by a diet of hot water and soup, the ace of the Service had been tied to some sort of rack and then this man had come by and pulled up the lever a few notches and reduced the hero of a hundred combats to a quivering jelly! No, this had to be settled, man-to-man.

On the last day, Bond had it figured out. He knew the routine when he’d be left alone with Count Lippe. As planned, the treatment rooms emptied of all but him and Lippe. He stalked through the Turkish bath to the lone, occupied sweatbox, facing away from the door.

“Goddamit, Beresford. Let me out of this thing. I’m sweating like a pig.”

“You said you wanted it hot, sir.” Bond’s amiable voice was a good approximation of the chief attendant’s.

“Don’t argue, goddamit. Let me out.”

“I don’t think you quite realize the value of heat in the H-Cure, sir. Heat resolves many of the toxins in the bloodstream and for the matter of that in the muscle tissue also. A patient suffering from your condition of pronounced toxemia will find much benefit from the heat treatment.” Bond found the ridiculous technobabble rolled quite easily off the tongue and he took a malicious sort of joy from it.

“Don’t give me that crap. Let me out.”

Bond ignored him and examined the sweat box control. The needle stood at 120. How much should he give the man? The dial went up to 200 degrees, which might roast him alive. This was supposed to be punishment, not murder. Bond clicked the knob up to 180. He said: “I think a half hour of real heat will do you a world of good.” He dropped the sham voice. “And if you catch fire, you can sue.”

Petty mission accomplished; James Bond went home.


	3. Unnatural Habits

Bond scraped the last of the plain yogurt out of the little plastic cup that boasted a yogurt made of organic ingredients and an authentic Greek recipe. Then he reached for his dry whole wheat toast, smeared it with a bit of black treacle, and slowly chewed each bite. After the detox at the Shrublands, even this kind of breakfast seemed like the food of the gods and he reveled in every morsel. On the weekend, he even went so far as to include a half a grapefruit as a treat.

Truth of the matter was that since leaving the Shrublands almost two weeks prior, he’d never felt better. He slept well, was clear-headed, and was brimming with energy. He felt younger and stronger than he had in years. Tasks that would have seemed like drudgery before were now pleasures. Even paperwork—he caught up on his and set about his reports with a kind of ruthless precision that had him catching evil looks in the hallways. He was now often the first to arrive at the office in the morning, and the last to leave at night.

Moreover, he’d become something of a health nut evangelist, and turned his attentions to Q. Whatever their relationship was—because God help them if either one decided to talk about what exactly they were to each other—Bond was determined to help the chronically overworked boffin see the light as he had.

This included coaxing Q into fitness workouts with limited success [ _“I like yoga fine, but I refuse to do any at 5 am. No, not even the fun kind. Go away you loon.”_ ], and a healthy, nutritious diet. Bond got rid of his liquor stash—he didn’t need it anymore—and bought whole wheat bread and fresh veg at the grocery store.

“What the hell is this?” Q asked, after stumbling into Bond’s kitchen. It was Saturday, and they both had the weekend off for once, which is why Bond was treated to the rare image before him. Q’s hair was tousled, and his sleep pants hung low on his hips. He peered into the depths of Bond’s fridge. “Why the ever-loving fuck do you have oatmilk in here? And what is this?” He picked up a carton of yogurt and squinted myopically at the label because he wasn’t wearing his glasses yet. “Since when are you into fat-free, sugar-free, joy-free, and taste-free organic yogurt?”

Bond set aside one section of the morning newspaper and picked up another. “Since I came back feeling like a brand-new man. Once I cut out the processed carbs, white sugars, sodium, bad fats, and the drinking, I sleep twice as well, have twice as much energy. No headaches, no muscle pains, no hangovers. You should try it.”

Q set about making himself some tea. At least the good thing to come out of all this, he reflected, was that James Bond had bought a fairly nice selection of teas.

“I’d rather not,” Q said. “I don’t want to become one of the cheerful pod people. No offense.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you,” Bond said. “It’s not bad once you get used to it. Second shelf, blue Tupperware. I packed you some leftover stir fry from last night to take for lunch. There’s chicken for protein, a variety of vegetables, and instead of rice, I made a nice quinoa to go with it. It’s an ancient grain, high in fiber and protein.”

Q opened the refrigerator again, stared at the container, and mouthed to himself “ _He packed me a lunch_?”

Q closed the refrigerator door and finished making his tea. This was too much weirdness to take at six in the morning.

Bond’s mobile gave the loud, insistent jangle that meant a summoning. At the same time, Q’s phone started ringing from somewhere in the depths of his rucksack.

Bond reached out a hand and picked up his phone while Q dug his out of his bag, answered, and disappeared into Bond’s bedroom to change.

“Good morning,” said Bill Tanner, the chief of staff. “If you could come in at once, please.”

Bond abandoned his paper and toast. “Something for me?”

“More like, something for everyone. We’re in an all-hands on deck situation, and if you have any plans for the next few weeks, I advise you cancel them. You’ll probably be out tonight or tomorrow morning.”

“Understood,” Bond said, and rang off.

Q came back in the kitchen, pulling on a black jumper that belonged to Bond, as it hung a bit loose on the boffin’s lanky frame. Bond must have accidentally put it in Q’s drawer after the last time it was washed. He decided not to say anything about the borrowed clothes. Q bolted down his tea.

“You too?” Bond asked.

“Me too. So much for the day off,” said Q, wryly.

“Want a ride in?”

Q had taken the tube to Bond’s flat in Chelsea after he’d left work at eight in the evening. It would be easier to ride in Bond’s car together than send Q off to the mercies of rush-hour public transportation. Bond felt Q’s green eyes on him, weighing and assessing. Their arrangement wasn’t exactly public knowledge. Bond wasn’t even sure if it was exclusive. He thought they might at least be friends with benefits, as the kids called it these days. And Q was wearing Bond’s jumper.

“All right,” Q said.

“Excellent.” Bond got up to dress for whatever the day would bring. “Don’t forget your lunch.”

Out of morbid curiosity more than anything else, Q did as he was told.

M did not look well. He had the overall shaky look of someone who had been up the night before, probably wasn’t drinking enough water, and almost certainly was drinking too much coffee. His eyes were bloodshot. He added a draught of Glenfidditch to his coffee, even though it was only now going on 8am.

Of course, a missing nuclear warhead tended to have that effect.

Having a fair amount of prep to do, Bond retired to his office to review all the briefings and dossiers and was mildly surprised to look up some hours later to see the Quartermaster himself leaning in the doorway. It was rare that Q emerged from his lair to pay a personal call on anyone without warning, but he had a certain look of grumpy consternation about him. His hair looked like he’d been ruffling it all morning, and he absently picked at the cuffs of the sleeves of his stolen jumper. It was noticeably large on him, and the cuffs went past his wrists, almost to his palm.

It was endearing, to see all that deadly, ruthless intelligence wrapped up in such an unassuming package.

“Is my kit done already?” Bond asked.

“No,” said Q. Those green eyes assessed Bond as readily as they assessed weapons prototypes. “I came to invite you to lunch.”

Bond’s eyebrows rose, but he reached for his jacket. “This is a turnaround,” Bond said. “Usually I’m the one luring you out of your lair with the promise of food. Didn’t like the leftovers?”

“I’ll eat them for dinner. I promise.”

Q took him to one of the pubs they sometimes frequented before Bond had been shipped off to the Shrublands. He almost balked…there was nothing in that pub except heavy pub fare and beer. But Q looked at him threw his long dark lashes in that considering way of his and Bond followed him in, meek as a lamb.

“This is going to be a difficult one,” Q said. Bond noticed that there were tiny stress lines around Q’s eyes. Q looked deceptively young even though Bond himself had a decade or less on him. “I need you to be you.”

“I am me,” said Bond.

“No, you’re a cheerful pod person. Which, I’m not complaining. The drinking and general bad behavior was getting out of hand. But this assignment will be dangerous. I know you can handle it. I need to know that you’ll survive it.”

“I knew I should have roasted Lippe when I got the chance,” Bond said.

Unexpectedly, Q grinned at him. Right answer, apparently. “That’s more like it. Now let’s have a ridiculous lunch, chase it with a martini, and then get you kitted out to save the world, shall we?”

It was with a slight shock that Bond realized that Q’s odd behavior meant that he was worried for Bond. He had a similar look about him that Bond’s elderly Scottish housekeeper, May, got these days whenever he turned down his usual scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee in the morning. She tutted and fretted and said that he was acting weird, especially after he explained in rhapsodic detail the importance of his new diet.

“I don’t like it, Mr. Bond,” the old lady told him, more than once. “A man like you can’t go about eating tofu and dry wheat toast and bean sprouts forever, it’s unnatural.” She gave him a significant look, silently reminding him of all the times he’d dragged back home from abroad, bruised and bloody, only to go out and do it all again.

Bond knew that Q watched over his agents with cool professionalism, Bond included. It simply never occurred to him that Q might be concerned not only for his physical well-being, but his mental and emotional one as well. He supposed that since returning from the Shrublands, he had been a bit…hard-core about it all.

Bond grinned. “Are you saying you like me for my personality, after all?”

“I know. Shocked me, too,” Q said dryly.

Bond ordered a shepherd’s pie, Q had fish-and-chips, and even let Bond thieve some of his chips.

As they finished, Q’s phone chimed.

“It’s ready,” he said, reading the text from R. “Ready to save the world, Mr. Bond?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Good point.”


End file.
